I trembled with the white truck, its wheels struggling against the loose rocks on the dirt road. I trembled and devoured the sweet semita bread laced with tears – for comfort, to cling to the essence of Carmelina through her stone-oven magic just a moment longer.

In Nicaragua, I lived the meaning of tranquility. Some days, I watched my host grandmother’s son, Rocky, lounging on the worn hammock for hours with his only daughter Danielita resting her head on his toasted chest. I was taken aback by the beauty of this silent connection between father and daughter and jealous at the same time. At night, several kids would join hands to dance around bonfires on the side of the dirt road. Burning trash was an amusing chore. Even the older women entertained themselves with talk of the wet weather while picking through piles of frijoles. The grupo de jóvenes, or youth group, planned T-shirt colors for their soccer team, organized religious celebrations for the third Sunday of every month, and participated in festivals in the next town.

And I was welcomed – by the grupo de jóvenes, by my host grandmother and her thirty-seven grandchildren, and even by four scorpions hiding under my partner’s bed. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, my partner and I coordinated campamento for the children. Tuesdays and Thursdays, we worked at the centro de salud. I kept wondering if I was doing enough because I could not see “community development” in material form. After day camp with the kids one day, I was carrying the box of materials back home. Then, in the middle of the road, scissors, construction paper, plastic pencil sharpeners, and boxes of crayons and markers tore through the box and scattered. After bending down to recollect the materials in exasperation, I lifted my head upon hearing the screams of five year-old Rubi and her four year-old brother Sandor. They shouted, “We’re coming! We’re coming!” After seeing the mess, Rubi ran up the hill to her house. Following her older brother Kevin and carrying two smaller boxes, she sprinted back. Immediately, Kevin, Rubi, and Sandor neatly piled the materials back into the boxes as I stood with my mouth agape. Kevin then handed me the smaller box of materials and put atop his shoulder the heavier one. I suggested we trade the load, but he refused. The three children accompanied me back home with the supplies without even asking for one plastic pencil sharpener. Rubi said I could keep the boxes.

Then Carmelina, one of my abuelita’s daughters, taught us the art of turning dough into baked wonders. A few weeks later, my partner and I decided to make our exceptionally large family pancakes. My host grandma’s daughters and granddaughters joined us in cooking one-hundred pancakes. The extended family and some members of the community came dressed in their finest to taste some American food. Sorting through frijoles and continuing conversations with each other from the last encounter, our neighbors waited patiently.

After four weeks of discussing and planning with the community, we were ready to paint the swings and benches in front of the community meeting house and construct a fence around the meeting house and the school. Thirty posts were donated from the neighborhood and the grupo de jovenes helped load the massive posts onto the wagons. For the next two weeks, we dug deep holes into the ground, fixed the posts in, hammered on barbed wire, set up a gate with cement stands, and painted. Children, mothers, patriots of Nicaragua, and teenagers shared sweat and jokes while we worked.

I knew time would pass quickly but did not believe it . . . until dawn beckoned August 11th. As I embraced the kids with a final goodbye, they left for school. My partner and I were glad they left smiling. I did not plan on crying on my last day in my second home. However, I was puzzled by the repeated question, “What color will the truck be?” since I had no idea what colored vehicle would be whisking us away. Some time later, a white truck drove in. As Carmelina brought down two bags of bread she had made that day, I hugged her and asked her to tell the kids the truck was white. Then I wet her shoulders with stinging tears as she did mine.

Before AMIGOS, I had firmly supported the idea of “helping the poor.” Now I realize that sustainable improvements are made when the community is involved and can lead the project. Although I will never be able to save the world, I will remember the people I met and what I learned from each individual. I can only hope that the understanding relationships and love I shared with the kids and adults influenced at least one of them in some way.